


Golden Countertops

by Connor_Murphys_Depression, SometimesIWriteBunnySmutOkay



Category: South Park
Genre: Abuse, Aged Up, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bartender Craig, Bottom Stan, Bourbon Street AU, Butters Chaos persona full time, Fingering, Gold Kink, Hurt/Comfort, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Kyle loves Stan, M/M, Modern Era, Pining, Rimming, Staig fic, Stripper Stan, Top Craig, Toxic Relationships, not going to spoil this with a million tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-13 05:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14743218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Connor_Murphys_Depression/pseuds/Connor_Murphys_Depression, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SometimesIWriteBunnySmutOkay/pseuds/SometimesIWriteBunnySmutOkay
Summary: In the city of New Orleans, at the heart of Bourbon Street, where everyone is busy living fast and dying young, lies The King's Quarry, home to the exotic dancer, The Golden King. He's considered the most beautiful dancer in the city, and just one look at him could convince any doubters that this is absolutely true. He drips power, and no one dares lay a hand on him.Behind that exterior, however, is Stan, a boy who grew up too fast, and the controlling thumb of Chaos, the most powerful man in the city. But with all that gold in your face, would you ever see the bruise under his eyes and between his thighs?Well, Craig Tucker saw. And it's not like he's got anything left to lose, except this brilliant golden spark that chose him to set ablaze.





	1. When the lights come on

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, I want to thank my darling friend Que for co writing this with me, without them it never would have happened. I hope you guys like it and if you want to contact me go for it! 
> 
> I have a tumblr:http://www.sins-of-the-loser.com where I do art and will be posting character designs when I have the time. 
> 
> I also have a Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/sinsoftheloser

The smell is what really sets the place apart. It's got a stench, a tang, an aroma, an odor, and a perfume all at once, and you could never mistake it for anything else. The thing lives and breaths just as surely as the people who live there, and it clings to you after you leave, because you never truly leave. That might be an okay thing though, because no one ever _wants_ to leave.

The smell has layers to it, each carrying their own weight. The first is an aroma of food. All of the culture and life just bursting at the seams, coming out in the many different types of dishes that you can taste simply by inhaling. The meats and cheeses and fishes that put you into any place you could possibly imagine while keeping you very firmly grounded in reality.

Right under that is the tang of alcohol, ranging from the wines to the beers to the hard liquor served in every store front. If you spent too long with it in your nose and in your brain, it's said you could get drunk. Maybe that was incorrect, but it certainly felt true, and everyone went about with such ease that they might as well have been drunk.

Just beneath this layer, you can catch the perfume of the cigarette smoke that laces every alley and street. Always, it hangs in the air like a different kind of smog. Perhaps that's why people here have such short life expediencies, all that second hand smoke has to go somewhere. But it's such an intoxicating blend of spice and nicotine that no one wants it gone, not really.

The stench that it covers up however, that people say they could do without. Because then you get to the raw sewage and rotting masses of who knew what that infests the streets, clogging up the arteries of the place, choking it. Yet it gives the place a pop of color that it would miss were it to vanish. So most are willing to put up with it.

And through it all is the odor of the sea’s briny sting, which ties it all together.

Together, this is the smell of the city. This is the smell of New Orleans.

When you walk through the streets, with their narrow winding allies that turned into sideways, to streets, that lead into allies once more, you can find any number of places. Some are beautiful, others are unassuming. The Black Penny, is one of these places, a bar like the million others that crowd the city. This particular place is closer to the dikes and dams that keep the place from flooding. It's nicer, slightly, or at least, it was at one point. Now, it's run down and tired, much like the people who work within. Those who aren't entirely dead are getting out, going to different places. Moving up in the world.

Because in New Orleans, if you move down, you hit the silt and drown.

However that is not where our story takes place, no, we must set this sad place aside for the beginning is in a much brighter place. Instead we must follow the scent of the city, because the smell seems to have an epicenter. Though it's hardly the source, it produces it like no place else. It's at the heart of the French Quarter, and Bourbon Street is the name, with it's strip clubs and bars and sex shops that are lit with glowing neon at all times a day. There’s a reputation that precedes it as the place where how much liquor you can hold is considered a prize and the money in your pockets seems to evaporate into thin air as soon as the stage lights come on.

There's actually a life expectancy for the street alone, with fifty being considered a ripe old age. And yet no one seems eager to leave.

It's a place of living fast a dying young, but no one cares. Not that you'd be able to tell, at any rate.

If you travel to the center of this experiment in human debauchery, you’ll find a palace unlike any other. One decked in gold, one that’s as enchanting as it is enticing. This is the home of an exotic enigma, a gold flecked god who has been rightfully crowned the king of any heart that enters his palace.  With sun kissed skin, ebony hair and crystal blue eyes like you're looking into the finest sapphire.

You can catch a glimpse of him through the doors at times, body overflowing with jewels and golden bands, muscles rippling in the light. The strong scent of vanilla, cinnamon and alcohol fill the club he calls home, and with his sultry glances, he lures in men and women of all persuasions.

Because here in The Kings Quarry, you either bend to the will of his siren call or find yourself crushed outside on the rocky steps of his doorway.  Everybody knows the saying; you never cross the Bourbon Street King, and if you do, god rest your sorry soul.

When you come to the door, there are solid walls of muscles that block your way, Bouncers that keep out everyone but those who belong in the den. But if you manage to get through the door, the first thing you'll see is gold everywhere. The walls, the counters, the hands and bodies of the people who give you dark eyes, all drip with gold. It's blinding and beautiful,  lavish and extravagant in a way that only New Orleans will allow. _If_ you can make it inside, you won't ever want to leave.

Tonight, it’s hitting every note, with it’s thrumming music and glowing gold. It’s a night like any other, and yet around here, every night feels special.

Currently, one of the lesser deities of the place is dancing. With his sandy blond hair and freckled skin, Kenny is putting on a show for sure. You can see it in the way he looks at the men and women around the stage. _Watch me and only me._ It's hard to believe there's someone better than this man, something more intoxicating.

But everyone knows why people really gather here.

"Long night?"

Kyle isn't facing the stage when he asks the question, he's sitting at the bar, a hand hovering over the glass in front of him. His curly red hair tumbles in his face, and his emerald eyes remain fixed on his drink. His words however, they're directed at the only person who could possibly be listening to him.

"Slow night."

Damien's answer doesn’t make much sense given how busy the club is, but usually, the place is even fuller, with people crowding just to catch a glimpse of one of the gods that inhabit these halls. Tonight, it's admittedly quiet, which incidentally, is how Kyle likes it. Damien likes it this way too, mostly because he doesn't have to deal with too many mortal idiots. Funny that he'd say it like that, considering this town is closest to the edge of death.

Kyle stops stirring his drink, and he looks up at Damien with a critical eye. Whatever flits through his head seems to work itself out however, and he's back to his alcohol, which he lifts up and examines in the dripping golden lights. Because everything there is gold, gold and black and opulent. The liquor glitters in his fingers, a rich, amber glow cast across his freckled skin, then it's disturbed as he puts the glass to his lips and lets a few drops trickle over his tongue. It burns, and he savors that feeling.

The lights on the stage dim as the blonde finishes his spin on the golden center stage and the thrum of the base fades into the background. Kenny hops off his godly pedestal and makes his way into the crowd, almost like a god greeting his followers. There are many who reach out to him, but more are already sitting forward in anticipation, ignoring the blond in favor of what is about to happen next.

Kyle looks up too. He and anyone with a brain in their heads have their eyes trained on the stage, the one that’s slowly filling with fog. The fog slowly spills over the edge, tumbling into the crowd and mixing with the cigarette whisp that fill the place. Then the lights begin to dim around the stage once more and everyone holds their breaths.

A golden spot light cuts through it all like a knife. The steady beat of  Pour It Up by Rihanna starts to fill the air and spread through the club. As the tempo picks up, the lights lining the edge of the stage blaze to life one by one, starting at the edge and running towards the center until the whole thing glows in gold. The base continues to build, thrumming through the club in preparation for the glistening blue eyed god about to enter. Kyle leans forward in his seat, grabbing the edge of the bar.

And then, he emerges. As a new song starts up, the hips of the gold-flecked god flicker through the haze.

Gold paint drips over the muscular, curved hips of a faceless figure, his features still hidden by fog. Only his lower half is illuminated in the spotlight, but already it’s clear that the King has arrived. As Bounce It starts up and Juicy J begins to rap in the background, his sun kissed abdomen comes into the light. The stage is already full of bills as those thick thighs spread and a tanned hand makes it to the waistband of the glistening lingerie that clung to his skin. Oh, it’s a show, but that’s what they’re paying for.

The light finally snags on a bright white smirk, slowly followed by heavy bedroom eyes lined with gold. Sapphire-blue eyes glisten under the warm spot light as the god rolls his body and hits his knees on the stage, dropping to all fours where he stretches that tanned and luminous body, earning a roar from the hungry crowd. The golden deity crawls forward to greet a random customer who sits drooling in the front rows, looking like he is descended from the jungle beasts he seems to mimic. Those hips snap upward and his cheek presses to the stage as he arches his back.  Slowly he parts his lips, allowing a soft moan to be heard by those closest.

This is the King of Bourbon Street, long may he reign. 

From behind the bar, where he watches with fiery eyes, Damien snorts. The sound's aimed at Kyle, who doesn't bother to turn towards him. His fixed attention isn’t without reason. Not many know everything about the past between the redhead and the god on stage, but this particular bartender clearly does, it's obvious in the way his eyes watch Kyle's face like a hawk.

"Beautiful as ever."

"Fuck... Uh, y-yeah."

Funny how the gold covered man on stage can leave even Kyle Broflovski dry-mouthed and at a loss for words. Hands covered with thin, shimmering gauze drag over that tawny skin sinfully, and even Damien, who's clearly accustomed to the display, spends a few moments watching the god at his best and his most sinful. There's no pole tonight, this is a different kind of dance, and it feels more intimate, with the smaller crowd and the pulsing lights. Almost _too_ intimate.

Damien looks back at the counter. A small tongue of fire lights at the end of a finger and burns the napkin some idiot had left behind, with their number messily scrawled onto the wrinkled paper. Unsurreptitiously, he brushes the ashes off the golden countertop.

"He's limping."

Kyle says the words like he's not sure why he's speaking. In return, Damien eyes him sharply with narrowed eyes. Despite the bartender’s reaction, the redhead’s words are true, the man on stage _is_ limping. It's hardly noticeable, and he's doing a good job of making it seem intentional, but to the trained eye, it's obvious. Even though he's the one who said the words, Kyle doesn't seem to expect an answer, and Damien doesn't seem about to give one. That being said, just behind those emerald eyes, the words _Why do you let him do that to you?_ run through Kyle's mind.

Though the golden paint keeps it behind a mask, there are bruises on those hips, hidden from sight. They dip down like dripping paint, and trail over his ass. At the top, they’ve almost got a dark beauty, but as these things do, they get nastier as they migrate around between those powerful thighs. Not that anybody would ever know, nobody is allowed close enough to even guess. The punishment to so much as touch the stage is so severe that no one in their right mind is about to disobey that rule. Especially with Damien's watchful eye on the stage and Kenny's knife wielding figure watching over each guest who makes a single move towards that imaginary line.

It’s an unspoken law of the club that nobody's hands are to ever dare to grace the skin of the King and that is partially because nobody can afford it. Though, that also happens to be due to the fact the owner of the club will strip the flesh on your hand down to the bare bones for daring to even think of trying it.

The only one allowed to touch that skin is him. At night, the one to make this golden god scream is none other than the crew cut blonde with a fist of iron. The Lion in a city of rats.

He’s got a scar over one eye, stretching from his eyebrow to his upper lip. The mark is etched deep, the knotted skin around it always looks cruel. It’s obviously from a run in that was intended to kill the man. No doubt some wish they’d succeeded. The scar hid a single milky eye, paired with a bright blue one. Together, they accompanied the heavily tattooed man who was never seen without a suit that likely cost the same as a home's down payment.

Chaos, for that’s who the man was, is a well known club owner, respected and feared by most. He not only owns the club, but half of the street as well. His family is old and his money endless. But in here, his reputation is of a slightly different nature.

He has a habit of laying claim to his _pets_ and bending them over his desk whenever it strikes his fancy. His flavor of the month is the current god on the stage, and those who snidely remark on such things like to say he’s using his thick length to treat his pretty boy right.

The problem with this habit shows through at times like this, however, in the way he’d left the gorgeous boy boneless right before a show. Seeing as Stan’s the club’s main attraction, it’s hardly a wise business decision, but how could anyone resist an ass that fantastic?

The redhead still sitting at the bar knows that the bruises are becoming more and more common. Stan’s always hated taking orders, and his defiance and fire had no doubt led to him mouthing off at Chaos once more. Unfortunately, the club’s owner had finally put a stop to that today. He'd spent the night with the boy screaming beneath him, and that’s enough to teach _anyone_ a lesson.

Kyle can tell something’s more off than usual the second Stan winces in the middle of his act. _He never flinches. What did that bastard do?_

It had been Kyle, once upon a time, who'd been the arbiter of that gorgeous creature on stage, but they'd both agreed that a pseudo business relationship involving fucking and protection just didn't feel right. They belong as friends, and Kyle usually seems happy with this, but it's at times like this that one realizes that the redhead hasn't quite gotten over those protective urges.

“He’s bruised.”

Kyle’s observation draws the bartender’s attention.

"He's _always_ bruised."

Damien stresses the word always ever so slightly, and that's what makes Kyle's head turn. Everyone knows what Leo is capable of, and no one's particularly eager to challenge him, but it's times like this where it's clear that some are more eager for things to be overturned than most. Except... the moment passes, and Kyle roughly grabs for his drink and washes down the bitterness in the air with the bitterness laced with ice.

"The day he tells me to make it stop will be a bad one."

Kyle winces at his own words, clearly the sentence came out wrong. But he doesn't retract it. He just leaves it hanging there damningly instead, and that's where it stays. Damien blinks once, then goes back to mixing a drink for the girl at the other end of the bar. His fingers are almost as quick as the music, which has Stan undulating on stage. The way the gold flashes is so hypnotic, but he falters again, and Kyle's fingers grip his glass a little harder.

Knuckles whiten, clenching over condensation and fragile glass, then he releases his grip and takes a breath. That’s when Damien decides to change the subject.

"I thought you'd made up your mind to frequent other establishments instead."

Kyle lets out a soft sigh that's drowned out by the voice of Rihanna from the stage.

"The Black Penny’s closing soon."

His eyes wander back up to Stan, then to the shadowed door that anyone with half a mind would dread. God forbid those moments where it opens. Heaven help whoever’s dragged through as well like a lamb to the slaughter.

The redhead clears his throat.

"And I couldn't stay away."

 _At least,_ Damien thinks, as Kyle somberly watches the god of the city throw his head back, exposing his long neck. _He's honest._

Which is more than you can say for most of the people in that club.

As the song comes to an end Kenny makes his way to stage and wraps a golden robe around the crowd’s beloved king before guiding him backstage away from his cheering subjects. It’s always the end of his act, getting pulled off stage like his beauty has to be protected. It does, but Kenny has other reasons.

The moment they’re in the back room, the sandy-blond sits Stan down on one of the lavish couches and doesn’t even give him a moment to breathe before speaking to him gently.

"Strip Stan, we have to get you cleaned up. Before Chaos-"

"Before I what, Ken?"

Leo stands there, leaning against the doorway as he watches Stan and Kenny look up at him as though they have committed treason. Well, they might as well have. There’s so many unspoken rules, is it any wonder they’re instantly on their guard. But Chaos doesn’t act like he notices this. Instead, he simply purrs, the words dripping from his mouth easily.

"Before I see how beautiful my boy is?"

The man grins as he witnesses the way Stan quakes under his gaze. _God, finally._ Took him long enough to realize who owns him.

"Get lost Angel, you have to get ready. I'll take over the care of my pretty little King."

He watches as Kenny straightens up and scurries off out the door and away from sight. Stan trembles harder on the couch and tries to stand, but those legs give out beneath him as Leo catches his hair in that rock hard fist. Pulling back up on the hair of the boy beneath his thumb, he looks over that paling face with cold eyes, seeing what has become of him.

"I want you clean and over my desk in an hour, is that clear pet?"

Demanding and harsh don’t even begin to describe his voice. But when you’re this powerful, it doesn’t matter what you sound like, people are going to listen. Stan listens. _They always listen._ Well, he didn’t before, but times have changed.

"Yes Sir. Of course Sir."

The little king reply is so timid, it’s hardly audible, but all the same, he’s dropped back to the floor.

“ _What a good boy_.”

Finally, Leo leaves the room.

At once, Stan gets out his phone and sends a quick text to Kyle.  
  
  
__**Stan:** [Hey Ky I can't come over, I'm staying the night again. Extra practice :^) Love you dude, see you tomorrow]  
  
  


Kenny steps back on stage, and Kyle's phone buzzes in his pocket.

 _Fuck._ He doesn't draw it out. Damien notes this as he walks a drink over to someone else. Keeps the corner of his eye fixed on the man and knows that Kyle's resisting the urge to check. Well the redhead is. He's trying to focus on Kenny, but he can't. Not when he already knows what that text is going to say. The same thing it's said the past few days. There's so much frustration in Kyle's body, he looks like he wants to cry.

But he doesn't.

From the stage, Kenny's eyes sweep the crowd and catch Kyle’s. The man's just sitting there, the dancer notes. Though he doesn't mean to, a sudden well of bitterness taints the Angel's air, and Kenny spends a millisecond reeling it back in. As though he can sense it from the bar, Kyle's eyes drop, and he palms his phone almost guiltily. _You're letting him die,_ Is what Kenny's eyes had said. _You're standing by as he's destroyed._

The man at the bar reads the text once. Twice. Damien returns and reads it over his shoulder. After seeing the words, the bartender makes up his mind to send Stan another bottle tonight before he's subjected to whatever torture is in store for him. Even though he's fueling the man's already rampant alcoholism, Damien's got a twisted view of the world, and some things are just worse than others.

Suddenly, the room chills.

A shadow steps out from that dreaded door, and Damien makes a point of not looking up. Kyle however gives in, and he stares at Chaos with sharp green eyes.

"Call me in the morning to come pick him up."

From the corner of his mouth, Kyle says the words bitterly. As something inside him drops defeatedly, he tacks on the regretful words that he hates to say.

"Cause you know _he won't_."

Of course Stan wouldn't. Damien knows it just as well as the man's friends do. So he simply nods once, and some of the tension in Kyle's posture relaxes, but none of the anger goes away. Someday, someone's going to die. In this land of the dead, it's only a matter of time before the bone hits the cobble. That day isn't today though, and Chaos vanishes once more.

Damien grabs the glass out of Kyle's hand and replaces it with another. The dulled blue of the drink looks acid green in the golden light.

"You need something stronger."

Kyle doesn't disagree. He just lifts the glass and drinks.

 


	2. The Ghosts of Bourbon Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Down where the mud is eternal and the light is a fever dream, others make their living, away from the King of Gold. It wasn't always this way, but these days, even the ghosts are tired.

Now that we've set the stage, let us leave our golden god behind and travel to a different place. For if you walk up the streets and put up with the slow moving cars that creep by, and the mule drawn trolleys that carry gawking tourists, you'll find a slightly different side of New Orleans. Past the silversmith shop, with it's faded sign, lies the Black Penny, or rather, what bits of it that haven't been sucked into the ever encroaching mud.

That’s a problem around here. Like they’re all doomed to a watery grave. It’s a constant battle if you want to keep a place nice, and it’s clear that this particular bar isn’t paying it’s dues to the god of the silt.

You'd have thought that someone would tell them not to build their houses on sinking sand, but no one down here listens. Basements, especially dry ones, are a pipe dream, and everyone is waiting for a flood to sweep them away. Perhaps that's why they live their lives like nothing really matters. Everything is day to day, and nothing can be trusted to last, but people cling to what they have, and that's why places like this bar still stand. As a royal fuck you to the world and the future.

But if you make it past the doors, the story gets deeper.

Inside is a deluge of forgotten grace, with the corners swept to death and the letters on the sign wearing thin. Everyone's closing up shop here, someone's buying up the place and gutting it entirely, but for now, the regulars and those who work here keep moving, even though it's a Sisyphean task. You wouldn't really know it's closing shop, the counters still shine and the glasses still glitter. But you can see it in their eyes, the exhaustion, the defeat.

No one sleeps down here. Not really.

"Just let me _look_ for you, I have more connections, I can probably find something."

The well dressed man brushes fingers through his short, dark hair before staring at the bartender. Token's been trying to get him to listen for months, but it never seems to work. There's only so much you can do for someone who doesn't want to hear what you have to say. They can nod and say they are thinking about it, but inside, their mind is nothing but a wall.

That’s what it’s like to talk to the Noirette scrubbing his counter down with a rag.

"Just fuck off already."

Token doesn't seem to take any offense to the other's rough words. Instead he just watches as that threadbare cloth drags over the same sparkling counter, even though you could never wash the sheer tiredness off of that gleaming surface. Eventually, he lets out a cultured sigh, one that’s hemmed around the edges in disappointment.

"Craig, you can't keep living with your head up your ass."

Craig's head snaps up. Acid green eyes glare daggers at Token, and you can see the _I thought I told you to fuck off_ just beyond the irises. Yet even though he doesn't look away, Token acts as though nothing is amiss, and just drags his finger slowly around the rim of his cup, nothing getting by those brown, disturbingly level eyes.

 _Asshole,_ is what Craig thinks.

Token knows the place is going under, but Craig constantly seems to be clinging to the last memories he has left of the blond man who had vacated his life.  The place had been owned and run by Craig's now passed husband, god rest his soul. His husband, Tweek, had become one out of many casualties that had resulted from an ugly turf war down on Bourbon Street that had left the place stained red. The gruesome event had taken place on their anniversary, four years ago, and since then the bar has slipped through the cracks and gone under.

Several times, Token has offered to find Craig a new business partner, or suggested a change of pace or _something,_ but Craig ignored him.

The worst thing about grief is being the one watching from the outside, unable to help or cure what ails his dear friend. He might be a doctor but there’s no cure for a shattered heart and Craig's is almost beyond repair. Tweek had been everything to him, but now that he’s gone Craig, had ... well his heart had died with him.

The man has gotten colder since then, quieter. He rarely laughs and tends to keep to himself and drink the days away with his own supply. He’s never had a mind for business, that had been Tweek’s niche. He'd been the one creating cocktails and drinks and picking out the dancers to lure in the ladies and gentleman, performing his craft like it was magic behind the bar, until he wowed them out of their wallets. Those days are long past, though.

Now, the only magic to be seen is the magically disappearing staff and dwindling number of customers.

Token sighs and puts a hand on the counter.

"Just tell me you'll consider it. Please, for me?”

Craig only stares, and it’s so easy to see how much it frustrates and scares Token.

“Fuck if not for me, do it for Clyde. He can't even come around you without crying anymore. Seeing you like this is killing us Craig."

Craig is silent for a moment. You could almost tell yourself that something Token had said is finally getting through to him, but then his fist tightens. Coldly, he gives a soft whisper.

"You should leave."

"What?"

"I said, _you should go._ "

Emerald green eyes stare Token down, and finally his friend swallows, a tad heasitently. He's never seen Craig quite so fridged. He sighs and nods, reaching his hand out towards Craig’s, but drawing it back mid-way and closing his mouth.

"I.... I suppose I should. We love you Craig. Just- Man get some fucking help. I can't watch you kill yourself like this. He's not coming back. You gotta live while you still can."

The words fall on deaf ears. He isn’t going to listen. To him, Tweek had been his whole world and when he died, Craig had died with him. He'd stopped living and been frozen in time ever since the funeral. When they laid him in the ground Craig had sobbed into Token's arms, screaming that they couldn't do that, that he could still come back. But after.... Well, Craig had never come back.

He really had died that night.

Craig hears the door slam as Token leaves, and he clutches the man’s empty glass to his chest, knuckles going white.

"Fuck you Token."

_"You should listen to him."_

One of the worst parts of living in New Orleans, many say, is the fact that no one ever truly dies. Most seem to hover, coating the city in a layer of spirits that can never really escape. Some get out, most are always searching for the exit. But some stay. _Or maybe_ , Craig can't help but think as his head comes up and he stares at the wavering image of Tweek sitting on the bartop with his legs crossed at the knee. _They can’t accept that they’re dead._

But then, maybe he was just crazy…

"I'm not fucking- I can't leave."

Some of the patrons still littered around the place glance up at the bartender talking to himself. His eyes have hazed over, and his expression is so broken, most simply turn back around. No one wants to deal with that, no one wants to incur the wrath leveled at anyone who dares challenge the Noirette. So they simply sip at their drinks and Craig stares at Tweek, at that mane of blond hair that they hadn't been able to tame even when putting him in the ground, and at those waveringly pale blue eyes that used to glow with life.

It’s not fair, he will always say, that somehow, they can be brighter than his own, even now. Because even dead, Tweek’s got more of a tie to life than Craig thinks he’ll ever get.

_"I can't keep w-ngh-watching you suffer."_

How a dead man can sound so broken is a mystery.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Craig knuckles at his eyes, when his fingers come away there's a damp sheen on them. He hides it by furiously scrubbing at the countertop, like maybe if he rubs hard enough, the blood that never touched them will come out. He's trying to ignore Tweek, that much is clear in the way his shoulders hunch and his back curves in on itself. Once upon a time, you could have described him as a proud name, now it was a good day if you weren't describing him as a dead-man walking.

_"Please don't do this to me Craig."_

Finally, it’s one straw too many.

"To you.”

Craig's hands shake as they clench over the edge of the marble.

"Fucking- To you, motherfucker?"

There's fury sparking in his green eyes as he furiously stares up at the spirit of Tweek.

"What about what you did to me?!"

Tweek's eyes are hard, even though he's as insubstantial as smoke.

_"I k-kept you alive. Grrr- Don't pretend like you've forgotten."_

"Tch. Yeah maybe, but we sure have pretty different definitions of alive."

He glances up to see if Tweek has anything left to say, but the blond is already starting to disappear. Only his eyes remain, that dulled, yet piercing color.

" _Listen to Token you dumb fuck._ "

Tweek growls the words as he fades out, and Craig doesn’t have the chance to say anything contrary. He jerks forward, he _wants_ to argue back, but at this point, he’s just arguing with the wind. _Damn him._ Craig’s thoughts are bitter. His mouth is twisting into a angry line. _Always fucking showing up when it's convenient for him._

"Fine. Fuck you."

He bites out under his breath and stands there, fuming. Sharp eyes watch him from the corner of the bar, before a bony, gaunt man clicks his tongue at his companion and gestures for the door. Anyone who’s looking would have seen the signs, because Craig is about to lose it. The gears are turning in his head, grinding against each other, and his green eyes glow with bitter, agonized anger.

The bell over the door rings as it closes once more, and the Noirette’s head snaps up. _I can’t take this right now._ He slams a glass to the countertop, the sharp sound breaking through the scant conversation. The patrons of the bar all jump as Craig glares them down. _Might as fucking well get these cunts off my back._

“All of you out! We’re closing up early."

He doesn’t have to ask twice. Resentfully, each of the patrons get up and skitter out the creaking doors like roaches running from a bathroom light. The moment they’re gone, Craig cusses under his breath and rotates sharply, going to a door behind the bar and up into his apartment. From day to day, he always manages to forget how the lack of things there make it feel so much more empty.

Up there, the air is even thicker than below. There’s so much up here he hates facing, and on days like this, he can’t find any blissful fantasy to fade into. Sure, he’s taken down any trace of Tweek, stripping the walls like a madman when he'd finally come to terms with his loss. But it’s the little things that hurt. The bedside lamp still hasn’t been replaced, a crack runs down it from his rage filled night of shaking his fist at god himself. There’s a dent in the bathroom door from when Tweek punched it after their first fight.

The bed still sags in the middle, like a fucking sinkhole that Craig can never escape.

Gritting his teeth, Craig’s muscles strain against the tight collar around his throat. But it’s too hot for that, he can’t stand this. So he doesn’t.  He made it to the decently large master bathroom before he’s tearing the bow tie off and stripping down to the skin from his dreaded bartending uniform. Glaring at his face in the mirror, the Noriette stands there. The mirror stares back at him, a neutral party to the man’s self-hatred that’s turned outwards.

“I need to get out.”

The words sound horrible when there’s no one to respond to them.

But now Craig has a plan, and he’s going to follow through with it. Throwing on the only thing he can even consider nice enough to leave the house in, Craig struggles to straighten his clean button up and slacks. The shirt is loose and cotton, the only way to survive in the torturous New Orleans humidity, and the slacks are thin and mobile. Which is good, because the next thing he does is stuff his wallet into his back pocket and flask into the pocket of his shirt.

Like always, New Orleans welcomes the old face into its suffocating, warm arms. It keeps those simple shoes grounded, while carrying the tired man along like Craig is nothing but a stray flier floating in the breeze. Except there’s no breeze down here, there’s just rolling waves of heat, and he’s already got a sheen of sweat on his tawny skin before he’s two blocks away from home.

He makes his way through the streets with the grace of an ancient god, ignoring the stares he gets, never deigning to acknowledge the attention he draws. But the stir is understandable. Heads turn, and people wonder if they’re simply going crazy. A certain dirty faced girl who is perched on the edge of a rooftop dashes off, no doubt ready to relay this news to whoever she feels needs to know. Those on the street give him a wide berth, but aren’t above gawking.

It isn't every day the people of the city catch sight of the elusive Craig Tucker. The towering Peruvian beauty had long since been considered the ghost of Bourbon street and the wraith of the ever sinking silt. His shadow is considered to have once been large enough to swallow cities, but now the thing is little more than a wisp in the humid autumn evening. He doesn’t even pay attention to the plethora of hostile looks he gets as he closes in on Bourbon street. He just keeps moving.

People ask each other if they're crazy, but Craig keeps going, past the street bands and performers, past the German Shepherd sleeping in the middle of the street, sunglasses and shot glass beside it, and towards the one place that smells different, looks different, _is_ different. Consciously, he doesn’t register what club he enters, he just vaguely nods at the bouncers and flashes that golden ID he carries that still gives him a right to enter any building in the whole place. It’s his feet he continues to follow until they tell him that he needs to look up.

Because once he steps inside and _feels_ the thrum of the base under his feet and is blinded by the gold dripping from every available surface does he start to figure out where he’d ended up. Finally realizing where the fuck he is, Craig draws in a sharp breath through flared nostrils. His nose is so assaulted by the strong scents that he has to light up a cigarette and shove his sunglasses back over his eyes to avoid being blinded as he makes his way to the front rows.

If someone like Craig Tucker is going to enter this place, he might as well pretend like he wants to take up the space he’s occupying. Still, anyone with half a brain can see the words _Dammit, why here?_ run through his head.

Technically, Craig doesn't have enough money to be here. He's got a failing business to take care of, why does he think that this is going to end well? But then again he's got that magic pass and an in with the club. A friend of his is a dancer here. The Noirette doesn't usually come by, so he never makes use of that fact, but today seems like it’s going to be the day he finally does. Something had brought him here, and as he stands there in the crowd, his sunglasses keeping him from being blinded by the gold, he decides that he’s at least going to figure out what that is.

Even though the people around him who recognize the tall man are giving him a wide clearance, Craig’s already caught up in his own thoughts, and he examines the stage passively in an attempt to sort through his own mind.

It's interesting that he would even bother with these places. After Tweek died, Craig stopped caring about other people in general, and yes, any potential attraction to anyone had gone out the window then too. Sure, he’d kept most of the dancers at the Black Penny for as long as he could afford to employ them, but that was because he’d met their families and couldn’t turn them out. No, they’d left him the moment they got a better offer.

Who cares though? Craig certainly doesn’t, not anymore. He just cares about the fact that _Tweek_ left him, but in a place like this, it's easy to forget your worries. Or at least it should be. The cigarette is heavy in his lungs, and you can almost see the man become more grounded. He's not paying attention to what's going on around him anymore, but certain people are more than happy to do that for him.

"Well well, if it isn't Fucker himself. Escaped from your usual haunt to come haunt us instead?"

Kenny makes it sound like a joke, but there's a reason Craig likes the sunglasses here. And it's not one he's about to share. Some things, after all, sound crazy, and the sheer amount of spirits that hang around this place is one of them. He likes to think that he’s preserving some sort of image with the sandy-blond.

Even though it's never been stated explicitly, however, Kenny still has an idea as to what’s really going on behind those green eyes. _Another one of those days, isn't it,_ he thinks as he stares at Craig, that smile still stretched across his face like he’s as oblivious as the Noirette wants him to be.

Craig ruffles, just as Kenny expects him to.

"Leave me alone McCormick."

The freckled man is dressed in his usual attire for this place, beautiful, dazzling turquoise that offsets the gold that covers his body. It's so thin and flimsy that it's practically see-through, but Kenny carries himself with enough confidence to negate any of those facts. He exudes careless strength that’s only slightly detracted from by the body glitter. Craig, though he outwardly looks much more intimidating than the other man, doesn't exude anything. He's slouching, and that's why Kenny snaps his fingers and points one at Craig.

"Oh no no, we’re not going to play that game again Craig. What you need, is a drink."

Craig opens his mouth to protest, but Kenny isn't having any of it. He's already looping an arm through Craig's and dragging him away from the stage and towards the bar. Others around them stare. They wish that _they_ could have someone like Kenny hanging off of them. There's something hilarious about the situation, because the Noirette wishes for nothing more than an escape from the man are so obvious it's almost comical.

Craig's absolute lack of will to do as Kenny says is only noticed by the demon tending the bar who’s currently staring down anybody whose hands dare stray from their drink and made for any of the dancers that are on their break. But the moment the sandy-blond is within range, Damien focuses that stare on anyone that would touch Kenny. Though, Kenny can defend himself and he happens to be walking with someone who was formerly known as the hardest man on Bourbon Street. That doesn't stop Damien from baring his teeth, well, metaphorically speaking.

Now, while Craig isn’t rusty and still religiously keeps up with his training just in case something happens, his mental space is a lot more lax these days. So he’s regarded as more of a myth or legend from another time, instead of a current threat. Back before Tweek had been taken from him, it was said the pair were unrivaled in a fight, Tweek being the fists of iron and Craig the gun wielding, knife totting lunatic. No one dared fuck around while in their establishment for fear of risking loss of limb if Craig were to catch them hassling a dancer. And even though his days have clearly come and gone, there’s still a certain amount of that instinct left in his blood.

Which is too bad for the poor tourist soul who hadn't been privy to the looks of fearful respect from the rest.

The creep reaches out and puts his hands on Kenny's hips as Craig and the sandy-blond are almost separated from each other in the crowd. Seeming to think he’s got a prize, the man pulls Kenny back towards him, with less than honorable intentions at the forefront of his mind. But too bad for him he doesn’t get further than an inch before the tip of a blade is pointed at the head of his cock, and is likely given whiplash as he finds himself mysteriously bent back over a bar stool.

Craig's dead green eyes are quietly deadly, and his blade doesn’t quiver. It’s as firm as the forgotten resolve that the Noirette hasn’t had to draw on in a long while.

The guy goes pale, trying to get out an apology and move away but it’s much too late, the Noirette's executioner’s glare is already trained on him. Though perhaps going for the dick is a _dick move,_ if you will, Craig is has a sudden change of heart. Not that it's a good one. Suddenly, a scream rings out as the man's hand gushes blood, his middle and forefinger now missing.

Without so much as blinking, Craig tosses him off the barstool and drags it to the counter where he leans against it pointedly, observing the sniveling man on the ground, still retching in pain. _Pathetic._ The thought is shared by many of the regulars, who don’t care that someone is getting blood all over the floor. Justice, after all, is swift and fair around here.

Craig wrinkles his nose and turns away from the scene at last.

“Someone pick those up and get him out of here, he's making a mess"

The Noirette says this with such an air of command that nobody dares question him. Kenny simply stands there for a moment before smirking and sashaying to the bar where he sits on the stool that he considers his after Craig so neatly claimed it. Settling, the glittering blond leans against Craig and hums mischievously.

"Damn Tucker. That was fucking hot. But why don't you save that shit for our pretty little King instead, he's about to come on."

He’s teasing the man, his hands lazily trailing up and down the length of the dangerous Noirette's torso. Craig pays the physical contact no mind, his eyes dead as he raises his glass to his lips. He doesn’t care about Kenny’s strange behavior, but something catches and you can see the gears turning in Craig’s head as he backtracks to it and thinks it through.

"King? Who the fuck are you talking about?"

Kenny's eyes sparkle as he grins.

"Oh, you'll see. You're in for a treat, he looks damn good tonight."

Sighing, Craig leans on the counter as he hears the music start up. Well, what can it hurt? Damien hands him a round on the house for his _good deed_ as the runner boys mop up the poor sap to his right. Dismembering fools always did get him hot, at least, when he’d been in the market, so why not tonight. Why not just… forget?

It's not often that Craig takes much of an interest in this particular brand of letting loose, but he might as well humor Kenny, right? Kenny, no doubt, can tell that the Noirette's trying to justify his own actions and he nudges the man with a shimmering shoulder to ease the process along.

"What, no problem with maiming someone for me but you got an issue with watching one dancer?"

Craig eyes him, an eyebrow raised skeptically. Oh, it’s definitely a stretch for Kenny to be able to use that kind of logic, but the sandy-blond is nothing if not recklessly persistent. There’s a niggling thought that you can sense running through the Noirette’s mind as he considers pulling away. But he's already here, and he's already found a decent spot on the bar, and he's not about to move.

"It's different when you're not the one paying them to be there."

Craig says it, but Kenny smirks because he’s won. The dancer can read the other like a book, and right now, he’s hitting the good part.

"Oh trust me, this is going to be worth it."

Glancing behind him at Damien, who's innocently wiping away a spatter of blood that had gotten onto his counter, Craig stares until he gets the man's attention. For a moment, the Prince of Hell simply gives the man a blank stare, but Craig’s brows furrow, and the game is up. Even though he’s playing at being clueless, Damien knows that the Noirette doesn't believe it for a second. After all, bartenders hear everything, and Damien is very _very_ good at what he does. Craig's look says, _Is he blowing smoke up my ass?_ Damien chooses to answer verbally.

"McCormick is rather proud of the King."

Craig picks up on that repeated name easily, and turns it right back at them.

"I've never been a fan of royalty."

Abruptly, the music around them changes and picks up, and the entire place is thrown into golden light as the stage becomes the only thing that matters. Even though Craig probably doesn’t _want_ to look, he’s already turning his head,on the edge of his seat like everyone else for the _man_ that’s got the whole place on edge.

Damien doesn't smirk, it's not his style, but he looks smug as, well, _Hell_ as he returns to wiping down the bar.

"Well, looks like it's time for us to pay our respects."

As if on cue the lights catch the shine of a golden harness stretched across the skin of a dangerously gorgeous and toned chest. Tanned skin covered in flecks of gold ripples and paint drips over those perfect hips. His fingertips have been dipped in the paint as well, and everywhere they move, they leave afterimages on everyone’s retinas. Then there’s a collective intake of breath as the wafting gauze that sits over the harness is ripped away to reveal shimmering lingerie, which cradles his cock.

He looks like a god made from flesh, the gold melts into his skin almost like it’s a part of him. Craig, though he’d hate to admit it, is speechless.

On his head is a crown of black hair, and gold once more lines his eyes. Though there is a new addition to his typical look. He has paint on his cheeks as well today. What most will assume is an artistic design really denotes a weak attempt to hide a bruise. But that’s the way the dice are thrown.

The man sways to the edge of the stage and drops to the floor, his knees meeting it with a smack as those golden fingers slide through his hair and he bites at his lower lip. Turning around he spreads those thick golden thighs and lets his hips grind against the floor, ass moving in time with the music.

It’s a display that couldn’t have been more sinful if he tried.

One foolish customer starts to walk towards the stage, wanting to gain the ultimate right to touch that golden god. This poor soul is unlucky enough to get a foot from Stan's skin, crossing that invisible line  between the stage and the front row. He thinks he’s succeeded.

It’s dark enough and everyone is so in awe of the dancer that only Kenny seems to see the guy. But he doesn’t catch sight of the creep until the man's watch glints in the light of the stage as he reaches for Stan's shimmering skin. He doesn’t see it until it’s simply too late.

But Craig notices.

Actually, Craig's noticing everything, and it's almost painfully obvious in the way those green eyes widen and his jaw loosens. Damien looks like he's going to snort with laughter, because he's seen it so many times before. Skepticism never lasts when the King is on stage. As he stands there, the Noirette's eyes flicker over the body moving on the stage. At those supple curves, sharp points, and gold-lined eyes. There’s something so transfixing about him that leaves Craig unable to even draw breath. Even though he's a seasoned veteran of these streets who’s seen a million dancers, working in New Orleans as he does, it's plain that he's never seen anything like this.

And it's because of this intense focus on the man on stage that Craig's eyes catch the man reaching for the gorgeous god. There isn’t time to contemplate the future, Craig simply moves without thinking.

There's a scream that almost rents the air before it’s muffled by a firm hand, and Stan's eyes shoot up to see it. He's so caught up in his routine that his eyes are almost hazy as they stare at the dark figure who pulls a bleeding and struggling onlooker out of the crowd. There's not much one can see with spotlights in their face, and Craig's too busy dragging the bastard who tried to touch this _god_ away to quite take it in himself, but Kenny, among other people, pays attention.

Craig looks terrifying, wreathed in power. The idiot had reached out, and now, his hand was covered in blood. Craig had stabbed his straight through the palm. Stan, on the other hand, has wonder in his eyes. Oh, he's seen Kenny do similar many _many_ times before, but there's something different about this that only registers in a few minds. Damien narrows his eyes at the sight, at the tall Noirette looking up and fixing Stan with a look, and the dancer staring at the man who'd defended him with the softest expression Kenny has seen in a while.

"Oh no."

It's the first thing out of Kenny's mouth. Somehow, it still comes off every bit as astute as a book would have.

"Unfortunately, yes."

Damien's words are accompanied by an internal smirk, and another wipe at the bar.

Stan can’t look away from Craig as he finishes his dance, his body remaining on display after the song ends and Kenny comes up to wrap him in his robe once more. He’s almost frustrated by the fact that he can’t even speak to the dark man, and it makes the dancer act reckless. As he’s ushered away to the back, Stan snags the tear away panties from the floor and smirks playfully before tossing them at Craig.

The tall green eyed male snatches them from the air and pockets them before processing what had just happened and grinning to himself. Satisfied, though the feeling is almost alien to him, Craig returns to the bar, blood soaking his shirt and a remembered confidence in his step.

Back at the bar and with another drink in his hand, Craig tries to scrub the blood from under his nails as he thinks back to that golden boy, that beautiful little King up there on the stage. What he wouldn't give to bend him over and find out what royalty tastes like. So maybe he will. Glancing at the door he’d seen them vanish into, Craig leaves his drink behind and starts towards it, pure curiosity fueling his movements. Why not, after all?

His mind isn’t the only one who’s been captivated.

"Who was that?"

Stan asks it insistently as Kenny leads him to the showers, voice filled with awe even as he limps away. He’s so awestruck he doesn’t even think about keeping his voice down or paying attention to his own condition as he wipes his face. The moment he does, the deep bruise is revealed at last to his friend.

Kenny goes silent. Looking over, he notices the blonde's eyes widen and realizes his mistake too late. The Sandy-blond’s mind is already spinning, making the air around them grow thick with tension.

"Shit- Hey look um I- I'm okay. I just, I wasn't listening an I got in his way, it was my fault."

He begins to desperately make excuses for Leo, even as Kenny comes forward to tenderly cup his cheek and inspect the mark. Finally, the words die away on his lips, which are revealed to be bruised and swollen under the makeup. Stan is shaking, but then again, Kenny is too. Kenny hesitates for a moment before leaning in and soothing him. Their lips meet in a bittersweet moment of quiet comfort, two tattered souls trying to find solace in the back room of what would surely be their tomb.

“It’s going to be okay.”

He whispers the words, looking at Stan as the tears begin to fall like rain.

“It’s not your fault- I-...”

Kenny can't help the shaking. It's not fear, it's fury. Anyone with half a brain can see that. His cheeks are flushing red, and his jaw keeps tightening yet he's fingers are so gentle as they brush over the purple mark. It’s all even more heartbreaking as he lets those tears fall. Stan still flinches, and that only drives his shatters his heart further. He didn’t deserve any of this

"That fucking  _bastard._ "

Kenny chokes on those words, catching in his throat like they’re made of tar. Even though the words are objectively true, Stan's shaking his head. He can't handle this right now. Not when Kenny is right, and yet they don't have a choice. There's no dark stranger to come and save him once that office door closes, and even though he can still feel the sting of those nails leaving gouges in his skin, he's not about to speak badly of Leo.

"Ken… Please... it’s fine. Just leave it."

If his voice hadn't been so weak, maybe he would have had a leg to stand on. As it is, it's at this moment that his legs give out. He collapses at Kenny’s feet, and can’t will himself to move further.

" _Bullshit_."

He can’t choke those words out a third time, Kenny knows. Those words full of a bittersweet horror as the fall breaks the thin scabs that had formed over some of the worst of the scratches and blood starts to track intricate lacy patterns into the gold. God what had become of them?

Kenny helps Stan to his feet, biting back the words that are jumping to his tongue. At least he's the only one to see this pain, both of them think it. At least there’s a certain amount of solace in that.

  
But they’d be wrong. Even as Craig takes a step back from the door and wonders why he did something as stupid as go into the back room and look for the god he'd seen on stage, his mind churns over what he just witnessed. That... isn't want he'd expected. No, that's something entirely different. Something darker, something he’s not sure he’s ready to deal with.

But he doesn't speak, he just retreats and hopes that no one catches him.

Not everyone has the opportunity to run, though. Stan clings to his blond friend as his knees tremble, feeling tears well up in his eyes for only a moment. Nothing can stop the pain of what Leo will do to him if he steps out of line. No dark knights to defend his honor and carry him away into the sunset. No, instead all he can do is be a penitent doll. To Leo he’s nothing more than a plaything, his _property._

The sound of that heavy oak door stops both men in their tracks and reduces them to little more than obedient shadows.

"I heard you had quite the evening, my little monarch.”

Leo's voice drones the words from the other room, making Stan tremble with fear and Kenny take a regretful step back, knowing better than to make it worse for his friend.

"Spread your legs pretty boy, greet your Master properly. "

There’s such cruel delight in that voice and it’s abundantly clear he isn't joking. Stan obeys him, bending over the vanity and parting his thighs, despite how bad he shook, eyes fixing on Kenny as shame crawls over his face.

"Good boy.”

“McCormick, be a dear and make sure my little king has something to suck on."

Kenny tensed, knowing very well what Leo had in mind. He wasn't due on stage for another 2 hours and Leo knew so he couldn't just escape. So slowly, he moved towards Stan. Looking at him apologetically, he pulled his shorts down with shaking hands.  Bile rose up in his throat as Stan sucked him down his throat and he was forced to hold still as Leo came up behind Stan.   
  
Chaos had no mercy as he slammed himself inside of the golden god, not bothering to prep him.   
  
"Did you think I wouldn't see how you looked at him, skank? Next time I'll do this on stage, in front of your adoring fans.”

 

* * *

  
Craig hears the pained sounds, but doesn't turn around. He knows better than to go meddling with things that aren't his business. It's bad enough that this hallway is clogged with ghosts and his sunglasses have been misplaced, the man should know better than to turn around. But what he hears…

Well, he hopes to god that Kenny isn't the one causing it. Because if he is, Craig would rather not say what he’d do.

Unfortunately, someone else seems intent on him turning and doing something after all.

_"So what, you're just going to leave him? Fuck you Craig Tucker, you are s-ngh-such a fucking coward sometimes."_

Tweek's there, his insubstantial form shimmering in the dim hallway, his presence driving the other ghosts away. The blond might be dead, but his eyes are burning blue, piercing Craig's chest, and Tweek knows it, because he doesn't back off or let up. He just stares, and waits for the Noirette to cave.

But for once, Craig isn't going to give in. He pushes past Tweek, ignoring those sickening chills the action brings. There's purpose to his steps, but regret in his shoulders and pain in his eyes.

"I'm not going to get myself fucking _killed._ "

Tweek's upper lip curls up, and Craig flinches, like he can feel it rather than see it.

_"Yeah, arg- because you're not dead already."_

_Go on._ The words linger in the air. _Tell me what you have left to lose._

Craig turns to stare at Tweek, and finally, his reasoning solidifies.

"This will get him fucking killed if I step in now. Or did you forget who owns this place."

Tweek waits, and mentally, Craig relents. _But I will come back for him._

_“You had fucking better.”_

Craig feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to find the bartender standing there, gaze dark.

"It's not the right time to play hero. Go home Tucker."

Damien says it with those knowing eyes. He sees the rage in those green eyes and sighs. He feels too old for this.

"Don't be stupid."

Craig knows he’s right. As much as it drives him crazy to find out that gorgeous boy is under Chaos's sadistic thumb, he can't just rush in there and expect they would both make it out alive. Nodding, he pulls out one of his few remaining business cards and hands it over.

"Give this to him for me. Tell him it's from the guy who has his 'token of affection'."

Craig runs a hand through his hair as he turns away, already walking towards the door of the club.

"I will. "

Damien has a habit of replying to no one. Or so it appears. In truth, he’s simply privy to the spectral audience surrounding him. He’s still for a moment longer before returning to the bar.

"Not the right time huh? Guess that means I gotta get a plan together. How does prison break sound to you?"

Craig murmurs it, lighting a cigarette as he walks down Bourbon Street once more.

_"Sounds perfect."_

Tweek’s answer is accompanied by a smirk as he faded out behind Craig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is kids, the next chapter. Remember, nothing is as it seems here. There's pain behind every curtain.

**Author's Note:**

> Let us know what you think! If you want more we'd love to hear it <3
> 
> -xox Sin & Que


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